He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it. His fingers moved clumsily and he had an air of rather ridiculous concentration. Watchman felt marooned on the edge of the table. He saw that Parish was listening with a maddening grin, and he fancied that Cubitt’s ears were cocked. ‘Damn it,’ he thought, ‘I will not be put out of countenance by the brute. He shall like me.’ But he could think of nothing to say and Mr Legge had begun to read his magazine.

From beyond the bar came the sound of raucous applause. Someone yelled: ‘Double seventeen and we’m beat the Bakery.’

Norman Cubitt pulled out his darts and paused for a moment. He looked from Watchman to Parish. It struck him that there was a strong family resemblance between these cousins, a resemblance of character rather than physique. Each in his way, thought Cubitt, was a vain man. In Parish one recognized the ingenuous vanity of the actor. Off the stage he wooed applause with only less assiduity than he commanded it when he faced an audience. Watchman was more subtle. Watchman must have the attention and respect of every new acquaintance, but he played for it without seeming to do so. He would take endless trouble with a complete stranger when he seemed to take none. ‘But he’s getting no change out of Legge,’ thought Cubitt maliciously. And with a faint smile he turned back to the dart board.

Watchman saw the smile. He took a pull at his tankard and tried again.

‘Are you one of the dart experts?’ he asked. Legge looked up vaguely and Watchman had to repeat his question.

‘I play a little,’ said Legge.

Cubitt hurled his last dart at the board and joined the others.

‘He plays like the devil himself,’ he said. ‘Last night I took him on, 101 down. I never even started. He threw fifty, one, and the fifty again.’

‘I was fortunate that time,’ said Mr Legge with rather more animation.

‘Not a bit of it,’ said Cubitt. ‘You’re merely odiously accurate.’

‘Well,’ said Watchman, ‘I’ll lay you ten bob you can’t do it again, Mr Legge.’

‘You’ve lost,’ said Cubitt.

‘Aye, he’s a proper masterpiece is Mr Legge,’ said old Abel.

Sebastian Parish came across from the ingle-nook. He looked down good-humouredly at Legge. ‘Nobody,’ thought Cubitt, ‘has any right to be as good-looking as Seb.’

‘What’s all this?’ asked Parish.

‘I’ve offered to bet Mr Legge ten bob he can’t throw fifty, one, and fifty.’

‘You’ve lost,’ said Parish.

‘This is monstrous,’ cried Watchman. ‘Do you take me, Mr Legge?’